


don't wanna sleep tonight

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, adventure date that lasts all night, and at this point we all realize we're gonna die miserable and alone, and then eventually you find yourself at a crossroad, anyway, but at least we had blarke to cry over, cancel culture is cancelled on ao3 forever, doctor!clarke, emotional cheating, fireman!bellamy, i dont deserve to be cancelled over this thats all, idk bitch like not everyone is perfect, kinda like when theres something there but youre both, morally questionable behaviour, too scared and stubborn to admit it is there, undeniable attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke encounters Bellamy at a bar during his bachelor party, one he desperately wants to get away from. She just happens to know an escape route through the backdoor alley. They don't plan on it — considering they generally as a rule can't stand being in the same room together for longer than ten minutes without it resulting in a screaming match — but they end up spending the night together.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 156
Kudos: 339





	1. tryna find a part of me you didn't take up

**Author's Note:**

> so this was born out of me wanting to write a cheating fic and then i sort of... kind of... but not really? chickened out? idk i think bellarke adultery is lowkey sexy bc i just think about how they literally just cant stay away from each other but then i got all up in their mindspace and im like, would they really? this is gina we're talking about, not the afro-grounder panda who tried to kill his sister. if it was her then he'd be boning clarke on the side every waking moment but it being his perfect little bartender girlfriend it just adds an entirely more painful dynamic and i want to explore it. tl;dr: cheating, but make it a nicholas sparks netflix adaption on crack.
> 
> most of this is written, but i thought it was better as a three-parter. so this is just a little introduction but don't be scared to let me know what you think comments kudos and bookmarks are my crack i need attention to live
> 
> song in title is gone by vérité, song in chapter title is death by a thousand cuts by that cracker i stan

_part i._

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asks, watching Bellamy slide down on the barstool besides hers from the corner of her eye, swirling her paper straw around her pink cocktail. She hasn’t seen him at work for at least a couple of weeks now, which much mean business has been slow.

Get a grip. Less is _good_. He’s a firefighter. Clarke should not be wishing for more business just so she can see him more often. Especially not since most of the time, they’re just yelling at each other. 

(Most of their arguments start exactly somewhere along the lines of this:

  
“You can’t come in here each time demanding special treatment when one of your men so much as stubs their pinky toe! This is an ER.”

He’ll scoff, say something like, “You’re one to talk about special treatment when your name is on the side of the building.”

It’s almost _always_ followed up with an intense staring session, and once upon a dark time half a lifetime ago after a particularly rough night, a steamy makeout session in the on-call room that neither of them has ever mentioned since.)

“I need a drink,” he answers her, gruffly, elbow brushing against her arm as he adjusts on his seat to signal the bartender over. It’s not busy for a Friday. “I’m trying to escape. Just pretend we don’t know each other and you’re hard to get.”

_Pretend?_ Clarke forgoes the straw and takes a large swig of her drink, letting out a small huff after she wipes a bit of the sugar from the rim of the glass off her lips with the palm of her hand. “And you think I look like someone who usually hands out their number to anyone with two legs and a heartbeat?”

He’s just finishing up telling the bartender his order before skepticism lines his baritone voice as he swings back into the conversation. “You’re into ostriches?”

The completely unimpressed look she sends him is one for the history books. That was _bad._ Like, really bad. How many drinks has he had? He’s known for terrible jokes, but this one took the crown. Is he okay? Is he on drugs? Should she be scared?

Bellamy groans, shaking his head lightly like he realizes it himself, then juts his chin at her expression. “That’s it. That’s the face that’ll convince them. Hold on to it.”

She watches him down the first shot that’s put down in front of him, the bob of his adam’s apple, the small trail of liquor dripping down his chin, the grimace on his face at the burn in the back of his throat. She can’t help herself, blames it on curiosity. “So who are you trying to escape exactly?”

“My friends.” He wipes at the wetness on his face with the palm of his hand. Clarke studies him, tries to gauge what mood he’s in. If he’s in for some semi-friendly ribbing, or if he’s too far gone on annoyance by reasons unknown to her. _Really_ takes him in this time around. On his neck, there’s smudged sharpie writing spelling out something along the lines of ‘ _dick_ ’. There’s a random blue piece of confetti stuck in his mess of curls and a hot-pink lei around his neck. 

Clarke cocks an eyebrow, intrigued despite desperately not wanting to be. She turns a little on her stool, leaning her elbow on the sticky bar. Her way-too-tight dress creeps up her thighs with the movement and she doesn’t bother pulling it down. 

“It’s my bachelor party,” he explains, eyes flicking over to her briefly before he’s back to staring straight ahead at the shelves of liquor in front of the mirrored back of the bar. Bellamy half-heartedly points a thumb over his shoulder, turning slightly to show off the back of his black t-shirt. It’s a bucket-esque list for the future-groom, raging from ‘ _shotgun a beer_ ’ to ‘ _get a lapdance_ ’. He swirls the bourbon in his glass. “They’ve been trying to get me to collect phone numbers all night.”

Right. _Get twenty women to give you their number_ . All Clarke can really think is, _oh_. Just shows how little she knows him. She figured out he had a girlfriend over a year ago. There’d been a huge fire at some factory that had been all over the news and he wasn’t picking up his phone. There was an insistent woman who wouldn’t stop calling the ER demanding to speak to her fireman boyfriend. Clarke missed the memo they got engaged entirely. Or selective hearing, either or.

“The absolute drag.” Clarke rolls her eyes. She’s seen him flirt before, from nurses and physical therapists to the janitor and the guy who sells coffee in the cafeteria, he always looks like he’s enjoying it just fine. He’s got natural charm, no matter how much it hurts her to admit it. She takes a sip of her cocktail, watches his reaction over the rim of her glass. Part of her wonders — hopes — if there’s something there to discover. Like doubt. Because she is definitely a horrible person. “What’s her name?”

“Huh?” He wonders loudly, shifting his head to look at her. His eyes dart down to her exposed thighs for a few lingering seconds before they’re back up to meet hers, recognition flashing across them finally. Something sour washes over his face. “Oh. Gina.”

Clarke scoffs, running a hand through her hair. He’s getting married. No matter how much she can’t stand him, he’s not _that_ kind of asshole. Someone who’s disrespectful to their partner. If he’s one thing, he’s loyal. Aggravatingly so. “Now let’s try that again with about ninety percent more enthusiasm this time around.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. His voice is sincere. “Gina is great.”

She moves her head from side to side, long hair moving over her shoulders, as if to encourage him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, she presses, “But?”

His face remains blank. “But what?” 

He’s so fucking annoying. “You said it like there was going to be a ‘but’.”

There’s a beat, almost awkward, and then Bellamy admits with a long, rough exhale and a pinch of the bridge of his nose, “I’m not sure I really wanna marry her.” 

He downs the next shot quickly, the confession lying as heavily between the two of them as the silence that follows after the shot glass clanks down harshly onto the bar. 

“And you’re not telling her why?” Clarke can’t keep the irritation out of her voice. It’s kind of weird she has expectations about the kind of guy he is when it’s obvious she doesn’t even like him. But she respects him, at least, and she can’t respect someone who isn’t truthful. She hates being left out, like Lexa did to her not so long ago. And Finn before that. 

Hell, she was out here trying to get _over_ Lexa by getting under some TInder Himbo and she couldn’t even go through with it. A one-night stand she’d probably never see again, and she was scared about betrayal. The fear of it like ice in her veins. The worst they could probably do to deceive her was turn out to be a catfish, or deliver less orgasms than they promised raving about their sexual prowess. And even any of that would probably be hilarious tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep in the harsh light of day when the alcohol was out of her system.

Now she just feels betrayed anyway. Bellamy is _not_ supposed to be this person. It’s not supposed to be _her_ who has terrible taste in people, it’s supposed to be a few individual cases in a row. Bad luck, or a sick joke the universe was trying to pull on her.

He covers his eyes with a hand, thumb rubbing circles into his temple as he lets out a small groan like they’re discussing him harassing her nurses for information about one of his injured men, or a fucking grocery list. “Can’t we just drop it?”

Clarke scoffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder in indignation. “I think we’re past the point of dropping it.”

His jaw clenches as he grits his teeth together, fingers tight around his shot glass, and for a second she thinks he’s going to change the subject anyway. Make a dig at the way she looks tonight, or tell her it’s none of her fucking business and move on. But his voice is surprisingly soft and sincere as he admits to the counter, his shoulders tense, “I don’t want to break her heart.”

One of her eyebrows arches, one of her heels kicking him in the chin with feeling. That’s cute and all, but it’s not like he isn’t a willingly participating adult in this whole scenario. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have asked her to marry you.” She snorts to herself, taking another swig of her drink. “Or did she propose to you with a gun against your head?”

“No, it’s not—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan, one hand raking through his curls roughly. He seems to have given it a lot of thought. “It’s just complicated, okay?”

“Well,” Clarke half-teases, and she blames the alcohol roaming through her system for the casual way she reaches out to poke his forearm with her finger. They never really touch without purpose. It’s not what they do. “Either you keep me entertained with whatever little sob story you’ve come up with to try and convince yourself you’re not a horrible human being, or I find someone more interesting and leave you to the bachelor party wolves.”

He inhales sharply through his nose, obviously annoyed with her. _Good_. She’s annoyed with him too. And she wants answers.

Clarke starts to turn back to the bar with a roll of her eyes, fishing for her wallet in her purse when she feels a warm hand on her knee, halting her movements. His gaze is dark on hers from under his long lashes, and she guesses he dreads going back to his friends more than telling her a half-assed little white lie to get her off his back. Except that is also not what they do. Even if it hurts them, they’re honest with each other. _Especially_ if it hurts them, sometimes.

His grip on her knee tightens for barely half a second before it drops away from her bare skin completely and back into his lap. Through gritted teeth, he relents, “Fine.”

Bellamy uses his elbow to push himself up from the bar so his back is more straightened and he’s halfway facing her “We thought she was pregnant,” he confesses, licking his lips, brow furrowed as he fixates his gaze somewhere on her shoulder. “I thought it was the right thing to do. She deserved someone who was there for her, and the —” He swallows hard before blurting out, “The baby.” The hand on top of the bar squeezes into a painful looking fist and his previously soft voice turns darker and rougher around the edges, “Nothing like my sister’s deadbeat dad.”

That’s kind of… _noble_. Her heart squeezes in her chest painfully, somehow all at once having all these warm, sympathetic feelings towards him she doesn’t know what to do with. It’s easier to make fun of him, rile him up. Safer.

Clarke rolls her lips together as she watches his side-profile carefully, giving him a second before quietly asking, “She wasn’t?”

“No,” he admits, palming his forehead and rubbing it with another deep sigh before he shakes it off. It must not be easy to talk about for him. For a flash of a second, Clarke imagines him as a father. She thinks he’d be good at it. Maybe a little overbearing, but not in a bad way. Invested. “But by the time we found out, we already had our invitations sent out and put down payments on half the shit on our checklist.” He seems to be relieved he finally gets to be mad at _something_ , gruffly scoffing about how, “Weddings are fucking expensive.”

“Still, seems a bit hardcore to marry her just so the money won’t go to waste,” Clarke concludes, not at all thinking he’s an idiot. She knows it’s easy for her to say it’s just money, considering she grew up with and at no point in her life didn’t have a trust fund to fall back on. Still, it’s _money_. A divorce and the years of relationship related trauma will be more expensive in the end. She can’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice, the arch out of her eyebrow. “Have you tried talking to her about it?”

Of course that only seems to be Clarke’s signature clinical way of thinking. He has other, more personal reasons. “Gina — she is — she is _good_ , you know?” He licks his lips, brow furrowed in thought as he shifts a little on his stool, hand in between his thighs for leverage, moving just a little closer to her, She’s sure the alcohol is doing it’s fair share at making him more loose-lipped, but something about his face makes her think he’s just relieved he finally gets to talk about this with someone. Even if it’s her. “I don’t deserve her. She loves me.” He opens his mouth, closes it. His brown eyes dart from one of her eyes to the other and he looks so vulnerable and sad, it begrudgingly makes a lump form in her throat. “She doesn’t deserve for me to break her heart days before her wedding.”

Clarke clears her throat, makes sure her voice croaks just slightly when she cynically presses, “I’m sure she’ll live.”

A familiar gleam reappears in his eyes and she almost lets out a sigh of relief. _This,_ this she can work with. “You calling me insignificant?”

“Your words not mine,” she smiles playfully, and it’s returned with a wide, goofy grin that makes her stomach flip. Hers fades at the realisation, and she takes in a shaky breath as she ducks her head. If they’re being honest and all. “I didn’t know you were getting married.”

His head snaps back to hers, and he tilts it slightly. “Clarke—”

Suddenly she can’t take it. She doesn’t actually want to talk about this with him. Not tonight. Not when she came here to fuck someone and forget about her last bad relationship. She didn’t come here to tell a coworker she hardly gets along with that deep down, somewhere, somehow she always thought that, once the timing was right and they both did some much needed individual growing — _someday_. Someday belonged to them together.

Clarke takes his glass off the coaster next to his elbow, gulping half of it down in one go before he can finish his sentence. It tastes disgusting, but it’s cold to the touch and is a welcome help when it comes to cooling down her heated cheeks. 

“Look,” Clarke says hoarsely, slightly out of breath from downing half his drink. She morphs her face into something more _unaffected_ by him, by what she almost just confessed in the dark neon lights of some shitty bar to a guy out on his bachelor party. Pretends like this is just another one of their midnight ER waiting room brawls. “I just don’t think in the long run this is something she is going to want for herself either, you know? Things like these, feelings like these, they fester. And the longer they do the more painful they get.”

“I can’t,” he retorts, simply, sounding resigned. Dread crawls up her throat, and she uses the other half of glass to try and swallow it away. He bows his head and then starts shaking it, more to himself, tugging on the front of his hair. “Can we just — for one last night, I just — I don’t want to think about it.” He sighs loudly, throwing his head back slightly as he suddenly seems to remember he’s not here to spend his night with her. “Which is kind of impossible when my friends keep calling me Hubby.”

“Hubby?” Clarke chuckles in disbelief. “I thought we, as humankind, decided to ban that word in 2018.”

“So you must understand how torturous this night has been,” he agrees dramatically, visibly shuddering, probably at some memories of earlier in the night she luckily doesn’t share with him. With a quick look over his shoulder he sullenly concludes, turning back in his chair so he can glower at the bar in full force again. “And it doesn’t seem like they’re ready to call it quits anytime soon.”

Clarke considers it, biting her lip as she watches the torment written all over the side of his dramatically pouty face as he fiddles with the _OVER 21_ wristband from some expensive club she’s never heard of. Her eyes flick over to his friends. 

_She’s going to regret this_ , she thinks, inwardly groaning, before she leans closer and borderline conspiratorially tells him, “Frog Face is throwing up so they’re all temporarily distracted. We have about 30 seconds before someone comes to get you for some motherly advice.” She tilts her head with half a challenge in her glaze blue eyes, corners of her mouth turned up. “I know a secret escape route.” Her eyebrows lift. "If you're game of course."

  
He takes a long, considerate look at her that would’ve made her squirm if it wasn’t for all the liquid courage swirling through her system at the moment. His friends let out a loud chorus of cheers behind him, encouraging his friend to ‘ _CHUG CHUG CHUG_ ’ even though he _just_ emptied the contents of his stomach in an empty metal wing bucket. It’s a gastric suction case in the making, but hey, she’s not on duty. Then, Bellamy finally/regretfully caves, “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or if you insist [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell, prompt me, or send early erectile dysfunction threats from anonymous burner troll accounts to a certain mediocre cw tv show runner together? together. ❤️


	2. when we get all alone i'll make myself at home and he'll want me to stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song in chapter title is the absolute BANGER i think he knows by again that one cracker i stan  
> but mostly listen to tell me that you feel it too by lyves bc that is more the overall mood of this :)
> 
> to avoid spoilers, i put a small TW in the end notes of this chapter. please check them out if you want to.

_part ii._

* * *

Clarke gets some cash from her purse, enough to cover both of their drinks and then some, nodding her head over to the left. They get out through the backdoor exit. 

They start walking down the alley, side by side. She’s careful not to brush their arms together too much, but she guesses she had more to drink than she’d originally thought and her footwork is a little stumble-y. He’s smirking at the ground, and she can’t tell if he’s making fun of her, or impressed by her. “Didn’t know you had it in you, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” she groans, throwing her head back a little as the grip on the strap of her bag tightens considerably. It’s always the same fucking argument and it’s getting repetitive. “Just because my mom helped fund the hospital’s new w—”

His eyebrows jump, like it’s obvious, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans. This time his answer is different. It’s _not_ him ribbing her about her ‘privileged upbringing’. “That’s not why.”

It feels like they’re having two separate conversations. While she’s not drunk, she is definitely buzzed, and right now her brain can’t decipher the code they usually seem to speak in. “Why what?”

His cheek seem to slightly color, but it could be her imagination playing tricks on her in the dim street lighting. He seems to realize there’s really no way back now. “Why I call you princess.”

“Then _why?_ ” She widens her eyes at him, and at how ridiculous he’s being, and only belatedly remembers now that there’s a shiver running down her spine that they left their jackets inside. Goosebumps rise on her arms. 

“One time in the waiting room you were going off on one of your interns and one of my guys, Miller, you know the bald one, a little shorter than me?” She nods, quick, even though her head is swimming with faces and none of them make sense right now, just wants to hear the rest of his explanation already.

Bellamy clears his throat a little sheepishly, averting his eyes back to the front. “Well, it was a long time ago, but, uhm, he made some comment about you being a hard ass—” He at least has the decency to look awkward. Clarke’s eyebrows rise, half-way offended, but she keeps her mouth shut. “We were just dicking around, but eventually we got to the conclusion that it must mean you were a pillow princess.” He visibly cringes, but braves on, “You know, hard on the streets, shy in the sheets. Like you were trying to compensate for something.”

“I’m a hard ass because I got an ER to run,” Clarke counters easily, deep inside knowing she should probably be delivering it with a bit more heat. Unfortunately, she’s partially amused by this whole thing. “There’s more patients than just firefighters and the people they rescue. There’s a system.” She presses, a one second pause for emphasis. He knows this. He’s been trained in a likewise matter. “ _Triage_. I have to follow it or people could die.”

“I know,” Bellamy relents, genuinely sincere, holding her gaze as he says it. “I know that now.” He lifts his shoulders, forearms flexing besides his nonchalant attitude as he looks back ahead. “It just, kind of stuck.”

She can’t help but quirk an eyebrow. “You know I’m not a hardass or you know I’m not a pillow princess?”

Bellamy’s half-chuckle seems to catch him surprise, and he smirks all boyishly, “I know you have a reason to be a hardass.” His eyes gleam almost mischievously and part of her instinctively knows they’re taking it too far already. It shouldn’t be this — easy. She should be stronger than this, be more morally sound, be _better_ _._ “The other one is yet to be determined.”

They stop in front of red light at a pedestrian crossing. She smiles, teasingly, and somehow every step away from the bar just makes the lines more blurry, boundaries nowhere to be found, words slipping out just like that. “Trust me, I’m not.”

He presses his lips together in order to keep his smirk from growing too smug, meeting her eyes shortly. “I’m going to have to take your word for it.” 

Bellamy looks back over at her as the weight of their words starts to settle in between them, her heart hammering against her chest as she swallows tightly. His dark brown eyes are insistent on hers, and the fingers of her free hand curl into a fist at her side just trying to keep them from doing something stupid. Then hues of green are highlighting his features, and they both abruptly turn their eyes back on the road, continuing to walk down it. 

"Fuck,” he curses, breaking the weird awkward silence, probably also realizing the absurdity of this entire situation. He shakes his head lightly, corner of his mouth turned up in a more friendly way. “I could use a drink.”

  
Clarke laughs, catching herself by surprise — tension releasing from her body with the sound, shoulders relaxing and air filling her lungs like sweet relief. “I could use more than one.”

He nudges his chin at the convenience store coming up ahead. “Let’s get more than one.”

Bellamy speeds up his step a little, and she hurries to catch up with him, a giggle-like snicker still lingering in the back of her throat at his sudden enthusiasm. Inside, some slow jazz song plays over the speakers. The man behind the desk doesn’t even look up from his magazine when they enter. 

It almost makes her skin dangerously buzz under the surface; the anonymity. They could be anyone they want to be. Anyone they don’t want to be. No one would know.

They walk over to the drink section, coming to a stop in front of the refrigerated area. Side by side, shoulders barely brushing, they stare down the variety of drinks. The air around them cool. 

“Mhmm,” Bellamy wonders out loud, crossing his arms over his chest. It brings his bicep closer to hers, radiating heat. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him quirk an eyebrow. “Captain Morgan?”

“Can’t,” she shoots back, easily, face twisting at the memory of her last stint with that particular brand of rum. “Had a very bad experience in college once. My friend mixed it with Redbull and mint liqueur.”

He turns his heads towards her, equal amounts of alarm and disgust all over his face, and she understands, because _ye_ s, she also still lays awake at night wondering why Jasper thought that combo would be a good idea. One cup, and she’d been hugging the toilet for the rest of the night. It ruined drinking for her. For months.

“Don’t even ask,” Clarke tells him without him even having to say it, shaking her head dismissively with half a self-deprecatory smile on her face. “My stomach has PTSD. To this day if I smell rum I get nauseous.” 

He nods his head slowly as if to say fair enough, and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth as they go back to the drawing board. She presses her thighs tighter together, tries not to think about the lonesome curl falling into his eyes and how firm his muscles look underneath the golden skin of his forearms. How easy it would be to lean in to him, his warmth. 

Instead, she thinks about how _nice_ a cool drink would be right about now and bites down on her lip even harder, grounding herself. Clarke’s eyes flick over to the shelf of liquor beside her on her right, remembers how her dad used to love cognac after a stressful day. “What about the Hennessy?”

“Oh, fancy,” Bellamy comments flatly, with a tone that both implies an air of superior revulsion _and_ annoys her. He’s so good at that. Reminding her she actually doesn’t like him at all.

Clarke scoffs, eyes roaming over the corner shop’s select collection of booze. She points out a sixpack of beer on the bottom with her foot, cocking an eyebrow as she turns her head to look at him.

“Bud light?” He question with a light huff, finally lowering his arms and giving her some room to breathe. Then the corner of his mouth is turning up all smugly, and she just wants to punch him in the face again, “I’m not _that_ cheap of a date.”

“Hey,” she throws right back at him, keeping her face blank as she tugs on the bottom of her short dress. She levels him with an even more smug smirk, even if her heart squeezes darkly at the way he is so very obviously flirting with her. “Drinks are on you. It’s your pity party, not mine.”

Bellamy sends her a pointed look as he begrudgingly pulls open the glass door, taking out a family-sized coca cola before leaning over to grab a cheap bottle of vodka from the shelf beside her. The chilly breeze coming from the fridge hits her like a brick in the chest, sending a shudder down her back. 

His jaw ticks. “You’re cold.” It’s not a question.

Clarke lifts one shoulder, even if it only aggravates her further. “A little.”

He squints his eyes at her, briefly, as if blaming her for something — which, fuck him — then makes a move for the checkout. Brattily, she yanks a pack of snacking nuts from a display rack, tossing it on top of the counter as the old guy starts scanning the drinks with a loud sigh. Bellamy looks at her with a raised, unimpressed eyebrow. Clarke adds a lollipop, too, just for good measure. She’s not that hungry, the powers that be booze as a natural appetite suppressant she guesses, but a small part of her likes to see how far she can push him, before he pushes back. 

She smiles a lazily cocky smile. “What? I’m not a cheap date either.”

“A whole package of almonds and a chupa chup?” He tsks half-heartedly as the store employee continues to scan the products with the pace of a sloth. “You’re gonna bankrupt me.” 

Clarke knocks her shoulder against his with a soft huff of laughter as he expertly pulls his wallet from his back pocket, ducking his head with a smile. Before he tugs his card free, he nods over at one of the _I <3 Polis _ sweatshirts hanging from a few mismatched clothes hangers behind the counter. “And can I get one of those, please?”

She frowns, but refrains from making any comment. The old man sighs heavily, eyeing him suspiciously. “We only have size M.”

Bellamy beams, all friendly polite charm. “That’ll do.”

Clarke shoots him a strange, partly wary look as he hands her the sweater as soon as they set foot outside of the store. “Put it on,” he says, and it’s not really a suggestion.

She just blinks at the soft material in her hands, her brain not computing the most recent of Bellamy’s actions. It’s nice, of him to do. They don’t really do nice. They either yell at eachother, or vaguely imply that in another life they’d definitely fuck each other, but there’s never been an inbetween. All of that — that’s superficial, specifically designed for them to deny there’s any deeper or meaningful connection between the two of them than that. This is — kindness. Unprecedented, and altruistic. “It’s barely a ten minute walk.”

He looks like he’s about to argue with her, then clamps his mouth shut as he recollects himself. “Clarke, just put it on before you develop hypothermia.”

Deciding to give him and his ever-rising blood pressure a break, she tugs it over her head. It’s stupid, and looks even stupider on top of her dress, and kind of for a reason unbeknownst to her smells like cigarette smoke, but it’s warm. Toasty. 

“Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” He overdoes it on the whole mockingly bright beam that makes her stomach flip, moving one piece of her hair to the other side of her head. 

Clarke rolls her eyes, even if her heart is thumping heavily as they continue to walk down the sidewalk. He can be kind of thoughtful, when he wants to be. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Without permission, her mind flashes back to that one night he showed up to the ER, not in uniform. Demanding some intern woke her up in the on-call room to examine his sister’s hand because he only trusted her. He wouldn’t even let her take a look at the bruise forming on his cheek bone, or the split in his lip. Shut down completely when she tried to bring it up, got cold and short with her. 

How the next time she saw him, Miller hooked his arm around Bellamy’s neck and made a quip about him getting into bar fights over girls who wouldn’t even remember his name in the morning. That meaningful look he threw her as he awkwardly laughed along with his friend. She’d wanted to report it, knew she was legally supposed to, but one look at his face and that night, and she also knew he would never forgive her.

And somehow, that seemed worse. Because she is selfish beyond reason. 

“Don’t eat all of them,” she warns him, handing him the nuts, bottle of coke hanging limply from her other hand. “Left here.”

They turn the corner as he rips them open, talking through a full mouth about how, “One of your better ideas, princess. Definitely a one-up from those bathroom-germ covered bar pistachios.”

She finds she doesn’t even mind the nickname that much when he says it like this instead of his usual disdain coated tone. 

“Not exactly your usual organic gluten free extra-vegan power carrot, but a close second,” Clarke banters back teasingly, knowing he always got something with way too much protein to taste good from the waiting room vending machine. She’s made fun of him for it before.

“Take away these muscles and who am I really?” He responds faux-wistfully, and she stifles a smile, lest he starts to think he’s actually funny, as they walk in companionable silence for a few blocks.

Bellamy’s halfway through the nuts, adjusting the bottle of vodka lodged under his bicep, when she takes her lollipop out of her mouth with an accidentally way-too-loud pop. His eyes linger on her mouth for so long he almost bumps into a lamp post, and she embarrassingly hopes her lips aren’t stained an artificial red. 

She could make a quick little quip about it, tease him about his level of smoothness, keep this whole thing light and easy and one-dimensional, but instead her heart feels heavy knowing there’s something else she’d much rather be telling him right now. Something he deserves, instead of her just being selfish with him again. 

Clarke’s been stewing on it since they left the store, and she figures that if anything good is going to come out of this night, she needs him to know. “Bellamy — look,” she sighs, pushing back a strand of hair from her eyes with her pinky, careful not to get the candy stuck in it. Her mind jumbled. “I know it’s not my place, but you — you’ve got such a big heart. I know we don’t really get along—” And there’s a lot they never say, but she does remember.

She remembers the long hours deep into the night he spent by that eight year old’s bed, orphaned by a residential fire. His big hand clasping her tiny little lifeless fingers. The tears down his cheeks when she didn’t make it through the night. How he didn’t recoil away from the consoling grip she offered his shoulder, but leaned into it. 

She remembers a lot of things. 

Releasing her bottom lip, she braves on, despite her skin crawling with unease at the thought of being this vulnerable with him. She could be making a giant fool out of herself right now, and yet she still feels he needs to hear this. She still trusts him. 

“But I know that you’re gentler than you let on. I know you care about your squad to the point it makes you reckless, and I know that one time you came in with your sister—” Clarke quickly clamps her mouth shut at the way his face twists, changes the course of the conversation because she knows she’s not going to change anything about that tonight. She’ll need several of those, and maybe a licensed therapist. It’s not the point she’s trying to make anyway. “All I know is it must haven’t been easy, after your mom died. What I’m really trying to say is —” She cuts herself off again, rolling her lips as she meets his gaze. She loudly exhales through her nose, knowing this might be the exact conversation she’ll regret on her deathbed. “When are you going to do something for yourself for once?”

Slowly, a smirk spreads across her face, and Clarke is actually a little scared. “Wow, I knew you had a crush on me, but manipulating me into calling off my wedding? That’s a new low, even for you, Griffin.”

“I’m not manipulating you,” she laughs, full of relief, elbowing him slightly. Grateful he’s made this not so horrible for her. Lighter. For once, she’ll let him get away with the obvious deflection technique, considering it’s helping them both. “I’m just looking out for a coworker.” 

Bellamy gives her a kind smile next though, brown eyes warmer than she’d expected them to be, and something tells her that even if he doesn’t want to respond to her words right now, he took them to heart anyway. She motions to the right, muttering something about her apartment coming right up. 

Discarding the lollipop in a nearby trash can, she opens the door to the lobby, pressing the button for the elevator. “No funny business,” she reminds him jokingly, casually looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

His eyes glimmer, and it has nothing to do with the bright overhead lights. “You’re the one luring me into your apartment. Maybe I should be the one laying down boundaries.”

“Please,” she scoffs, holding the plastic bottle with both hands as she presses it against her lower belly. “There was no luring involved. You came willingly.”

“That’s what all the serial killers say,” he responds, upbeat. The elevator dings, the doors sliding open to reveal an older woman with short, cropped brown hair.

“Hi Vera,” she says in greeting, absolutely hating how the woman’s eyes flit over to Bellamy obviously and shamelessly.

“Clarke, honey. Glad to finally see you out of those scrubs for once,” Vera responds kindly as she presses the button to her floor, although Clarke can’t imagine this is somehow a better look for her. “Who’s this young man?” Vera cocks an eyebrow, checking him out again in that way only grandmas can. She sounds excited, “Boyfriend?”

Bellamy stifles a laugh at the look on her face as she sputters for an answer for five unbearingly long seconds, cheeks heating. God, he’s so fucking annoying. Useless too.

It’s too much. It’s painful, to be in this elevator with her sweet old neighbour, who thinks she is a good person, who thinks there’s something pure and wholesome going on between her and this cute guy. When really this is a guy who is getting married to someone else in a few days and she just asked him to come over to her place to do God knows what only to forget all about it in the morning. It feels like she’s been caught doing something bad when she hasn’t even done anything. It makes her sick, thinking about it. What _could_ be them. What isn’t.

“No, we just work together,” Clarke reaffirms, clipped in a way that instantly makes her feel regretful. Her heart skips a beat out of surprise at the familiar ding of the elevator, both too soon and too late, doors sliding open again as they reach her floor. Internally, she sighs of relief, fingers curling around Bellamy’s wrist so she can direct them out of here as soon as possible. 

The only obstacle in their way the elderly woman smiling at them in that all-knowing way, aggravatingly smug even, eyes flicking down to her hand as she dryly comments, “Sure thing, honey.”

Clarke just offers her what she hopes is a polite smile, although probably strained, making her way past her, careful but swift, pulling Bellamy along. “Have a nice night, you two.”

“You too,” she calls over her shoulder just as the doors slide shut behind them. She suppresses a shudder at the awkwardness of it all, dropping his wrist from her grip and wiping her clammy palm on the material covering the side of her thigh. 

Quickly, she fiddles with the keys once she gets them from her purse, pushing it into her lock. He whistles within seconds, taking in her large windows and spacious living room appreciatively. “Nice place.”

Clarke isn’t very materialistic, but her mother wanted her to live in a safe neighbourhood and this building has 24/7 security around. Living here saves her a few forced phone calls a month. The main draw were the windows however, the natural light during the day great for painting.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, because somehow he always manages to make her feel ashamed of her glaring wealth even when he isn’t trying to, kicking off her shoes before moving further down the hallway. 

“Now I wonder what crimes Vera commited to get into a building like this,” he muses after a moment, lagging a few seconds behind because of having to untie his shoelaces.

“Her son is a senator,” Clarke explains without much ado, dropping her purse on top of the kitchen table. She moves over to one of the cabinets, pulling out two wine tumblers next.

He hums affirmatively, fingers skimming the books on the shelf beside the potted plastic plant as she decides to busy herself by trying to find some ice in her freezer. Then suddenly his voice sounds much closer, sending the hair on the back of her neck standing straight. “I didn’t know you were into Madeline Miller.” 

She doesn’t know if she is. Monty gifted her _Circe_ three years ago for her birthday, and she still hasn’t allowed herself the time to read it. As with most of of the books on her shelves. When she turns to reply, sliding a bowl of ice cubes over the counter, he’s already distracted, blinking at the glasses. “You mind if I wash this dick of my neck first?” 

She snorts at the abrupt change of subject, stretching her back a little. Her feet ache, and her lungs feel like they haven’t had a real breath in over half a day. “No. Can’t say I would mind getting out of this dress.”

He raises his eyebrows slowly and she rolls her eyes before he can even say anything. “Don’t get any ideas. I meant out of this dress and into my pyjamas.”

It’s weird, to have him standing in her kitchen like this, both hands on her kitchen counter, leaning slightly forward, only highlighted by the street lights filtering in through her blinds. No shoes on, talking to her about her book collection, about to have a drink with her. Normal, almost. Even if it’s anything but.

Bellamy is smirking one of those cool, unaffected smirks, but she doesn’t miss the way his eyes have darkened since the last time she saw them up close. “Lead the way.”

She shows him the bathroom and where she keeps the towels before she ducks into her bedroom, changing into her sleeping shorts and a baggy t-shirt. She folds the sweatshirt carefully, placing it on top of her dresser like a keepsake. Even if this is the only night they ever spend together without tearing each other’s heads off and he goes back to his regular asshole life tomorrow, it’d be nice. To have a physical reminder that this wasn’t all just a fever dream. That, in another life, they could probably be friends.

Clarke pads back into the bathroom quietly. For a moment, she watches him scrub his skin raw in the mirror, before she bends over. Collecting all her tangled hair in her hands, she fastens it into a messy bun. When she flips it back over, he’s moved on from a messy autograph to the aforementioned penis.

She leans over to grab her makeup wipes from the counter, shoulder knocking into his arm as her free hand tightens around the cool marble counter. Her eyes flick over to him in the mirror, catching him in the act of doing the same. Instead he’s not-so-subtly checking out her bare legs. 

Clarke resists the urge to squirm under his gaze, and forces herself to start rubbing off her make-up. She doesn’t really care what she looks like, especially not in front of him. He’s seen her with 72 hour shift sized eye-bags, seen her with uncombed on-call room hair, seen her covered in bodily fluids he wouldn’t even know the names of. She’s not too worried about a little mascara coming off. Once she finishes with her eyes, he’s _still_ working on his neck.

“Let me help,” she mutters impatiently, instructing him to turn. He begrudgingly listens for once, shifting his back toward the mirror. She frowns at the blue towel as she pulls it from his hands, showing no evidence of at the very least a little soap. “Were you just using water?”

He grips the counter, shrugging a little uncomfortably as if hating to admit he failed at something so simple. Another beat, him gazing down at her, before he presses, defensive tone in his voice, “Yeah, so?” 

Bellamy’s standing very close, or she is to him technically, and he’s so big and consuming and overwhelming, it’s setting her entire system on fire. So much, the heat seeps into her voice. “It’s permanent marker, idiot. They’re water resistant.” She step aside and opens her mirror cabinet, taking out her hand sanitizer. Dousing a corner of the towel in it, she starts dabbing at the reddened skin carefully, ignoring his tiny winces. She could use soap, but this is faster and she wants him to suffer just a little bit. “What’s it with men and their obsession to draw phallic objects on everything?”

He’s keeping his gaze trained on the ceiling, head slightly thrown back to give her more access to his neck. “It's the middle of the night. Can we save the psychoanalyzing until the morning, Freud?”

A huff of indignant air leaves her lips. “It’s important to me that you know Freud and his Oedipus Complex are outdated.”

Bellamy fakes a surprise gasp, albeit half-assed, and she feels his eyes flit down to her face, although she keeps hers firmly fixated on where she’s working on his skin. “You _don't_ want to fuck your father?”

“Dead,” she notes matter-of-factly, way, _way_ past that particular trauma, corners of her mouth turning up sympathetically. He couldn’t have known, and it’s hurt, but it’s ancient. “But even if he wasn't I would have to pass.”

He flinches, mouth twisting to the side. “Ghost sex off the table then?

Clarke laughs, the kind that escapes her mouth without permission and is way too loud. “This just got weird.” 

He lifts his shoulders, and she finally meets his gaze, which is sincere and apologetic but not in a bad way. Pity has always been her worst nightmare, but he gives her none of that. “I didn’t really know if you wanted me to dive into the dead dad thing or just casually change the subject.”

Clarke smiles at him, genuinely humoured, but it fades quickly, a small sigh leaving her lips instead. “Not much to say.” Her hand rests on his firm shoulder as she takes a break from dabbing at his skin for a moment. Her small thumb brushes his pulsepoint, just once. Her free hand flexes at her side, tone almost bored as she recites the usual story, “My mom wanted a divorce. She got custody, and forced me to live with her. First day after he moved out he had a heart attack. I blamed her for a while. Now we can only talk about our jobs.”

“Cancer,” he says simply, and his knuckles turn pale for just a moment. “My mom.” She squeezes his shoulder supportively, and he lets out a breath as the tension drains from his body. At least he sounds steady, which tells her it’s old for him too. “And before that there was the depression and the constant rotation of the worst possible drunks she could find in our local bar.”

Instead of lingering, she presses on, “Dad?”

“Never met mine. My mom didn't know who was Octavia's,” he says simply, not much emotion to dissect. At the mention of his sister, something flashes across his eyes and he sobers. Suddenly it feels like they’re entering a different conversation. “It’s really all she’s ever seen, you know?”

Studying his face, she’s distracted by the flutter of his eyelashes, the freckles dotted on his cheekbones, the scar over his lip. She’s not sure if she’s understanding him correctly. “Huh?”

One of his hands comes up to apply pressure to his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, shaking his head lightly. She’s so entranced by his movements, it catches her by surprise when he blinks open his eyes and looks directly at her. “My sister. The way those guys treated my mom… she doesn’t know better.” His forehead creases and he inhales sharply at the look on her face, feels the need to elaborate, settling on, “She doesn’t know how to — love anyone differently. It’s all or nothing with her.”

He doesn’t owe her an explanation, but she wishes he realized he deserves better than this. She’s not going to lie to him, make him feel better. Instead, Clarke’s eyebrows raise impassively and if her tone gets a little authoritative, it’s because she’s annoyed with him. Annoyed with the fact he has the biggest ego known to mankind and somehow still has a serious lack of self-worth. “Doesn’t mean she gets to take it all out on you.” 

She can tell he’s not convinced, but she’s not letting him win this argument and if it means she has to get a little personal, she will. The anger makes it easier too, to keep going. Easier to explain to herself why she _cares_ so much. She’s just being a relatively okay doctor, concerned with his well-being like she would be was he anyone else. She watches his adam’s apple bob up and down slowly, and shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, she had you. She knows what a decent kind of person is like.”

Bellamy smiles, and although it’s a little sad around the edges, it’s obviously meant to be teasing. “Decent?”

She tilts her head, squinting her eyes. “Ish.”

His smile grows as he shakes his head lightly, brown eyes still insistent on hers when he stops. There’s gratitude there, maybe even the mutual understanding they’re more perceptive of and attuned to each other than they’d thought. But there’s also something darker, heavier, drawing her in. It’s like she’s frozen in place, physically unable to look away. 

Bellamy’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and it’s like magnetism. She swallows tightly, forcing herself to take a quick breath, like somehow the extra oxygen will clear her mind, pressing her palm to her forehead briefly. She needs some distance before she does something stupid. With every long look, every simple touch or half-assed flirty line he throws her way, she’s one step closer to being unaware of why she shouldn’t. 

His big hand comes up to cup her chin briefly, thumb running over her bottom lip and she knows he’s doing it on purpose, a challenge right there in that cocky smirk of his. Even worse, she _likes_ it. Likes the metaphorical game of chicken, even if she tells herself she can’t break. Not if she ever wants to be able to look at herself in the mirror again.

Even so, Clarke finds some semblance of willpower inside of her and she groans, leaning her forehead against his sharp collarbone to at least break herself away from the trance his face seems to bring her in without even trying. His body shakes with soft laughter, arm on his other side coming up to rub her back semi-sympathetically. Clarke doesn’t know if this all technically still counts as dancing around it when they both know this song forwards and backwards. His fingers graze down her spine, setting her body on fire through the thin material of her t-shirt before it drops away completely. At the contact, she stifles a gasp, burying her face further into his shoulder. Scrunching up her nose at the stench of beer and weed, she pushes off him. “You stink.” 

“Thanks,” he deadpans, although his voice is a little rougher than before.

“You smell like a frat house bathroom.” Clarke wets some more of the towel with the tube — drenching it, really — because the sooner she finishes, the sooner she can put some much needed distance between them. She can’t even really still blame those few cocktails she had at the bar, most of their decision-making affecting effects out of her system by now. “There’s just one last letter and then I can get you one of Wells’ shirts, if you want to?”

“Sure,” he counters, relatively normal. A beat, and she can feel his eyes studying her as she rubs at the faded spot just below his ear. Then, his jaw tightens and he reluctantly follows up with, “Who is Wells?”

“My best friend,” Clarke reveals, amused, patting his chest as she finishes up. She throws the towel in the hamper next to the shower. Her mouth twitches. “Want it or not?”

“Wouldn’t want to be walking around here stenching up the place,” he counters sarcastically as he follows her towards her bedroom. 

“Nice posters,” he comments, genuine, looking around while she digs through her drawers for all the spare clothes her friend has left lying around at some point. She’s sure they’ll fit just fine, might even be a little big on him, especially since Wells recently picked up boxing to impress that wild-haired girl at the gym.

“Thanks,” she mutters absentmindedly, eyes flicking over to him by for a brief second. Her heart flutters weirdly in her chest at the sight of him, messy hair and hands stuffed in his pockets, in her bedroom. Somehow it’s different.

“What’s this?” Bellamy wonders, pressing his palm to the shiny one showing an almond shaped structure in the brain, right beside her closet. 

“Uhm, my dad got it for me when I got into medical school,” she explains, looking over her shoulder quickly before _a-ha,_ sporting the corner of Wells’ black Liverpool jersey and starts pulling on it. She lets out a breathy laugh at the fond memory. “It’s a joke. He used to say I was born without one.” She rolls her eyes affectionately, ignoring the small pinch of longing in her chest. She misses him, but it’s okay. “He learned about it in a medical dictionary for kids.”

Bellamy turns to face her completely, a curious look on his face. _Right_. She grimaces lightly at her own stupidity, freeing the jersey and holding it to her chest as she pushes a stand of hair behind her ear with her other hand. He’s not really a science kind of guy.

Closing some more of the distance between them, she explains, “The picture? It’s the amygdala, located in the anterior-inferior temporal lobe.” She reaches up, presses a finger to his skull, a few inches above his temple. She rubs the spot teasingly, hoping he’ll slap it away, but he’s just staring at her all seriously. Dropping her hand back down herself, her smile grows, albeit a bit nervous. “It’s part of the limbic system. You can have it surgically removed, and with it all your sense of fear.”

He gets kinda red in the face, still frozen in place and her eyebrows jump. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy insists, quickly, almost startling her. Then he rails himself back in, swallowing tightly. His eyes dart over her face, “I just —” His mouth closes, then he finds her eyes, and he tries again, sheepishly, “You sound really smart. When you talk like that.”

_Oh._ She feels a brush creep up her own neck and quickly takes a step back, tossing the shirt at his way. “Here.”

She doesn't expect him to take his shirt off right there and then, so unfortunately she has to swallow a partial squeak as golden brown abs are revealed — immediately and all at once. It’s not like an unrealistic Men’s Health cover eightpack, but firm and smooth and mouth watering all the same. Did he have to be a fucking firefighter? She averts her eyes mostly because she doesn’t want him to catch her gaping. 

(And then they’re really all gone. The visual reminders of _why_ he was out at the bar tonight.)

Fixating her gaze on her feet, she leans back against her dresser before gritting out, hopefully casual enough and not as strained as it feels, “Netflix or Disney Plus?”

Bellamy finishes tugging his head free from the collar, shaking out his curls with a boyish grin. “You’re telling we could’ve already been fifteen minutes into Moana?” 

She laughs, motioning for him to follow into living room. Clarke sets the TV up while he goes to grab the glasses from the table. Some of the ice has melted into water, but there’s still enough to cool both of their glasses as he fills them generously. 

Clarke takes a sip of the vodka-coke, enjoying the way the sharp taste stings her eyes, carefully looking at him over the rim of the glass. Bellamy’s melted into the cushions like he belongs there, legs spread lazily as he drums out an unfamiliar rhythm on his thigh with his fingers. 

Finally she plops down on the couch beside him, where he’s nursing his own drink, folding one leg underneath herself. Her elbow of the arm cradling her glass rests on the arm of the couch, the other hand rests on her bare thigh. For some reason, she doesn’t press play yet, feeling like there’s something she should wait for. 

His hand covers the hand on her thigh, warm, and squeezes softly. She shifts her head to meet his eyes, somehow manages to keep her a straight face even though her cheeks feel hot. “Thanks.”

“For what?” She asks, hoarse even though she just took a sip. Her heart is slamming wildly against her chest, the rhythm making less sense than the jumble of thoughts in her head. 

“Saving me,” Bellamy admits, genuine, voice all soft, and her breath doesn’t hitch, but it definitely stutters a little on her next inhale. The corners of his mouth turn up. “And my Friday night, of course.” The joking nature of the statement doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which remain serious and insistent. 

“What are co-workers for?” Clarke quips back, pulling her hand away to push her hair back from her heated skin. Mistakingly, because now his is just on top of her thigh. His eyes are transfixed there and so are hers, their breaths coming in heavy.

Finally, he lifts his fingers, refusing to meet her eyes as he licks his lips, tugging on the front of his hair softly. “I lied.”

“About what?” She pries, careful, somehow feeling calm in the middle of all the chaos roaming through her body. It all feels so inevitable. Maybe she should stop making a big deal out of it. 

“I know you don’t have a crush on me,” he comments, unexpectedly solemn, and suddenly his hand is back. Light, but heavy. It’s hard to breathe. She wants to run, but her body has other plans. “It’s me who has a crush on you.”

She stops again, eyes darting from his face to his fingers and back again. “Bellamy—” Her heart beats erratically fast. His thumb moves, caressing the inside of her thigh and this is dangerous. Clarke hates herself for liking it. She swallows tightly, holding on to her very last shred of rationality. “You’re drunk.”

Bellamy ducks his head, nosing at her neck. Lips hover inches from her ear, but he pulls his face further back before he talks. He wants her to see his face. Stupid, smug face. “I’m not _that_ drunk.” 

They both know the consequences. She sits there, breathing heavily through her mouth, watching him. She still hasn’t made up her mind. She wants this, him, _more than anything_ , but also knows her wanting things doesn’t always end up well for everyone else. 

He tilts his head slightly, gruff voice barely above a whisper and somehow still able in filling the entire room around them. “You said you wanted me to do something for myself.”

She meant get himself a quarterlife crisis motorcycle, or blow way too much of his paycheck on a baseball game he’s always wanted to attend. Maybe call off his wedding. Not — whatever _this_ is. Her fingers wrap around his wrist, keeping him still as she shakes her head a little, wondering why this feels so impossible. “I didn’t mean—”

“You?” He breathes, cutting her off as he searches her eyes. Her nails dig into his skin, and her chest feels like it just got ran over by a freight train, heart just soft, dull thumps of conflict. Beating out his name, even if it knows it’s not allowed to. “I know and that’s why…” Pushing out a heavy sigh, he ducks his head, frustration flashing across his face as he confesses to their hands, “Clarke, I want you so badly sometimes it hurts.”

Her hand slips down to cover his, pushing them both further down towards her knee. Safer. “Bellamy — you’re just confused,” she argues, just slightly desperate for him to understand, squeezing his fingers to try and ground him to reality. “You don’t want to marry her, so you’re trying to find an excuse not to.”

“No matter what happens it’s going to be an excuse either way,” he defends, expertly, like he’s gone over this before. She doesn’t know if it means what she wants it to mean. That regardless of whether they do this or not, she’s already enough of a reason for him to call it off. So why hasn’t he? “I’ve always…” He makes a frustrated noise, leaning over to slide his drink down on top of her coffee table just so he can run a hand through his hair, like that somehow helps him think. “That night we kissed — I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.” 

She tilts her head back, startled. She never realized he gave that night as much weight as she did. Thinking about his warm mouth, his calloused hands on her skin, the hard press of his body against hers. She guesses she wasn’t the only one aggressively pretending it never happened to protect her own feelings. His forehead creases, his voice nearly breaking, “Tell me I’m not making it up.” _Please_ is heavily implied.

“You’re not,” Clarke admits quietly, because she can’t lie to him. Not right now. Adjusting the way she’s sitting and leaving her tumblr on the arm of the couch for what it is, she turns more toward him. “You’re not making it up.” He squeezes the soft flesh of her thigh, and she’s reminded it won’t be enough. Gnashing her teeth briefly, she presses, “But I don’t— I can’t be— if you’re going to marry her at the end of the week, I can’t do this.” 

It would be torture. 

She wants to. She wants to more than anything. Wants to know what it would be like, with him. To feel him all over her. His teeth sinking into her skin. His tongue trailing down her goosebump-covered stomach. His hand tight around her neck. Needs to know if the second kiss will be as good as the first one, now she’s had so long to build it all up and back down again. But not if he’s going to be someone’s husband in a few days. It’s cruel of him, to ask that of her.

He palms her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for but she holds her breath nonetheless. He smiles to himself, short but secretive, dropping his hand. Dark eyes lift to bore into hers. One more beat, and he challenges, “So convince me.”

Clarke can’t understand how he’s acting so _cool_ about this. He is the one getting married. She’s trying to be the good guy here. Is it a front he’s putting on, or is he just really unaffected by the implications of all of this? Maybe he’s just the world's greatest actor.

And now she’s furious with him, too. For thinking he’s some kind of prize she has to fight for just because he’s too scared to make a move himself. Like it’s not people’s feelings they’re playing with here. Like he’s not the one constantly touching her, and flirting with her, and driving her insane. It’s unfair, to pretend like this is all on her. That all of this depends on what she does, or says. Make it all her responsibility, so what? When this all inevitably blows up in their faces, he can blame it on her? Fuck that. This isn’t her burden to bear.

She just blinks at him, face blank. “You’re crazy.”

His mouth twitches, and then he’s smirking, eyes sparked with amusement. “That’s a terrible start.”

They both know she won’t ask him to leave, or call it a night and lock herself into her bedroom, because that’s like giving in, admitting the temptation would be too great. She won’t give him the satisfaction of going along with whatever he wants her to willingly, either. 

“Fine,” she scoffs indignantly, pushing him aside so she can get up from the couch. If he wants to play games, he doesn’t know what’s coming for him. She _won’t_ be the one giving in. And they both know he’s a sore loser. “Let’s play scrabble.”

She can feel him watching her rummage through the boxes on the bottom of the bookcase besides the television. The back of her shirt creeps up, and the cool air chills the heated skin of her lower back. She doesn’t have to see him to know his eyebrows are raised. “Scrabble is how you’re going to convince me?”

With a small satisfied gasp she pulls the old box from the bottom of the pile, dusting it off quickly before sending him a pointed look as she crosses back over to the couch. “It’s how I’m going to convince you that us being able to be in the same room for over fours now is just a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic disruption of the universe as it should be.”

He leans forward on his elbows, resting them on his knees as he stares up at her, wolfish grin playing on lips. “Glad you think what we have is special.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, nudging his foot with hers as she nudges her head towards the coffee table. “C’mon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of domestic violence and abuse
> 
> gina baby im so sorry but bellamy caught you slipping :/ i'm available [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or if you insist [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) so come say hi or tell me im a loser or sumn. also leave a comment youre quarantined what else are you gonna do?


	3. because none of it was ever worth the risk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl i almost deleted this entirely and i hate it and everyone is gonna hate it too but well at least nobody can say i leave things unfinished! cheers to that
> 
> song in chap title by paramore

_part iii._

* * *

They settle in on the floor on opposite ends of the table, carpet soft against her bare legs as she sorts out her tiles. They play seriously for a while, both of their competitive sides coming out, and then she doesn’t know what comes over her (can she still blame the one sip of vodka-coke?) , but in between her raking in bonus points on ‘ _quarter_ ’ and him rubbing his find of ‘ _maximize'_ in her face, she decides to get brave. After all, this might be the only chance she gets at having a semi-civil conversation with him, before they go back to work in the morning and pretend this never happened. 

They just finished an argument about the legitimacy of the word ‘ _pow_ ’ when it’s literally a sound ( _“Scrabble allows ‘zzz’, the_ sound _we make when we sleep so it’s basically the same”_ ), and he still has the faintest of smiles on his face. He’s gorgeous. She toys with a tile in between her fingers, then catches it in her palm, closing her fist around it. 

“Were you sad?” Her eyes are fixated on the board, like she’s simply thinking about her next move, worrying her bottom lip. She can feel his gaze on her. “About the baby?”

Bellamy puffs out his cheeks, exhaling deeply, eyes slightly widened with surprise. “Jesus, Clarke,” he chokes out. 

“Sorry, I just —” She shakes her head, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from talking. He told her they thought Gina was pregnant, but he never actually mentioned if that was something he wanted. And yeah, she probably already knows the answer. She’s seen him with kids. He gets a special kind of protective when it comes to the small ones. There’s just this ugly, self-gratifying, jealous part of her that needs to know if it was something he wanted with _her_. 

The martyr inside of her needs to know If he palmed her face and kissed her with joy when he found out. If he picked out a ring straight after, thinking about the white picket fence house he was going to build for her, raise their kids in, grow old with her. Did he cradle her belly at night, despite it’s flatness, pulling her closer and whispering sweet promises into her hair?

It’s sick. Did she want him to be disappointed? Did she want his first thought to be of her? Did she want him to be a terrible human being just to please her own selfish needs? She’s scared to answer them herself. 

“It’s fine,” he dismisses her, not too cold, quickly scrubbing a hand over his face. He leans his elbow on his knee, hand supporting his jaw as he seems to seriously think it over. He frowns at the board as he speaks. “I guess I was mostly relieved.”

She cocks an eyebrow, and he seems to notice, taking his chin off his hand so he can scratch at his chest, then absentmindedly ends up kneading his shoulder. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want kids. I definitely do, it’s just—”

Her mouth twists to the side in a sympathetic half-smile. “Not right now?” 

His reply is instant. “Not with her.” From where she’s sitting, Clarke fights the urge to squirm, suddenly feeling hot all over. It’s too much and too little at the same time. With an incline of his head, he corrects himself, “Not when we’re in this place.”

“Sorry,” she says again, feeling stupid, gaze following the tendons in his hand and down to the muscles working in his forearm. “For bringing it up.”

She’s not strong enough to fight him on why he thinks that if they’re not in a good place to have a baby, he could possibly fix that with a marriage. She doesn’t even think _his_ brain works like that, wonders what he is hiding from, what she hopes he is hiding from. How sick it makes her she’s even having those thoughts.

Bellamy’s hand drops back down into his lap as he grins, clearly amused. He looks incredibly stupid in the dim lighting of her fireplace and a few stray candles, the small lamp in the corner, brown skin almost golden. “This isn’t usually how people do this.”

“Do what?” She counters, possibly irrationally naive, although she can’t help but narrow her eyes at the implication. Whatever ‘this’ undefinable, unspoken thing is, he’s just as complicit as she is, maybe even more so. And if she keeps up the pretense, keeps playing stupid, maybe he’ll play along and they won’t end up doing anything reckless. “Bringing you here, I was just doing you a favor. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

And even if she did, he’s the one who came along willingly. He’s a fucking hypocrite.

He ducks his head, but his smirk only grows. The sight sets something alit underneath her skin, prickling insistently. “If we’re playing it like that now.”

She tosses a tile at his head, for good measure, which he narrowly dodges. “The only thing we’re playing is scrabble,” she snips, reasserting, using his earlier ‘ _pow_ ’ to put down ‘ _wagon_ ’, racking up her score significantly. Ignoring the rapid pounding of her heart in her chest, she presses, “And I’m about to kick your ass.”

“You’re ice-cold, Griffin,” Bellamy mumbles grumpily, dumbfoundedly blinking at the board like if he looks long enough the tiles might shift in his favor. He looks up, brows furrowed together. Accusatory, “You distracted me.”

She stifles a smug grin. “You _let_ yourself be distracted.”

it’s almost six am by the time they finish their next game, early morning light softly filtering in through the blinds, only interrupted by his stomach grumbling. They both kept it to that one drink, mostly sobered up by now. The last effects starting to drain from their systems, including the appetite suppressing quality that’s failed to remind her until now that the last time she actually ate something was that chupa chup yesterday night. She has to admit she could definitely eat as well. 

Clarke stretches her arms over her head, stifling a yawn. “I have some cereal. Probably.”

Bellamy looks skeptical, leaning back on his hands. “Probably?” 

She shrugs lazily, lifting herself up onto her feet. His eyes only briefly linger on her legs before the find their way back to her face. She pretends not to notice. “I usually grab breakfast at the hospital.”

She turns for the kitchen, and she hears him get up to follow her, a frown evident in his voice. “You and I both know the hospital vending machines seriously lack options with sufficient nutrients.”

Clarke sends him a teasing smile over her shoulder, opening the cupboard to get out the cereal, shaking the box to check how much is left inside. “This might be surprising to you, but I don’t spend nearly half as much time as you reading the back of the packaging.”

He’s on the other side of the kitchen island, arms crossed over his chest and looking a little sleep deprived with his slightly red eyes and mussed up hair. He actually looks annoyed. Which is — stupid. “So what? You live on Hot Cheetos?”

“Fine,” she relents, putting down two bowls and the cereal on top of the counter, holding up her hands in mock-defense before tucking her hair behind her ears. “You’ve caught me, I’m the only doctor in the world who doesn’t eat breakfast.’

He doesn’t tease her back, just narrows his eyes slightly. “You should take better care of yourself, Clarke.”

There’s something about his tone she doesn’t — can’t — dissect this early in the morning, so she doesn’t. She just hums dismissively, pivoting around to grab the milk from the fridge. She remembers to check the date on the carton before pouring them both a healthy serving of cereal, pushing it toward him over the counter as he sits down on one of her stools begrudgingly. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles after swallowing a mouthful and suddenly it’s a little awkward, suffocating, to have him in her kitchen like this. Nothing has happened between them, not really, but it could’ve, maybe they even wanted it to, and in the light of day it’s harder not to face the worst parts of themselves. 

They eat quietly for a minute, and she keeps her eyes trained on her food, resisting the urge to put a little sugar on top of hers to make it easier to swallow down. She can’t imagine what kind of lecture that might inspire, and she’s not really in the mood. When she dares to look up to him next, he’s checking his phone. Clarke suppresses an irrational surge of jealousy at the thought of who he’s texting, and she doesn’t know what she can blame it on now when she stabs her spoon back into the bowl and her mouth runs. “You texting Gina?” 

Bellamy looks up from his phone, dropping his now free hand back on top of his thigh, his facial expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”

There’s a foul taste in her mouth, and it sourly twists to the side briefly as her eyes drop down back down to her bowl, shoulders tensing. “I guess not.”

She can feel his eyes on her hand as she moves her spoon through her breakfast mindlessly, scooping on cereal and letting it slide back off, just to keep her hands busy. She’s suddenly not so hungry anymore, stomach churning at the thought. 

“Why do you never say what you want to say?” Bellamy asks, suddenly and a little too aggressive for the conversation they’re supposed to be having. Although it doesn’t seem like they’re on the same page anyway.

Her eyes snap up to his, dropping her spoon so she can rest both palms on the counter. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You can tell me if it bothers you that I’m texting Gina,” he tries at first, eyes heavy on hers as he gauges her reaction. When there’s little to none except for the incessant stiffening of every muscle in her body, and she remains quiet under his persistent gaze, he snuffs sharply, scrubbing a hand over his eyes before he pushes, hoarse and full of some sort of resentment she doesn’t understand, never knew was there, “Would it kill you to tell me how you really feel for once?”

She reels back, processing his sudden outburst as pieces slowly start to fall into place. He’s been pretending to be distanced and collected all night, above it even, doing it so well, she had no idea he was this close to breaking. 

“It doesn’t bother me, Bellamy. Why should it?” She replies calmly, through gritted teeth, fingers to tight on her spoon her knuckles are white. Letting out a breath of mirthless laughter, she scowls at the look on his face. “Do you think I’m jealous?” He opens his mouth, but she keeps going, feeling relief and perhaps even a sick thrill at getting to hurl all the ugly thoughts she has about herself at him. “Maybe I’m a masochist, obsessed with torturing myself with the thought of being with an insufferable ass like you, huh? Is that what you think? That I’m pathetic enough to pine over you when you’re going to be someone’s husband by the end of the week?”

“No,” he breathes, rough, a flash of hurt in front of his eyes before getting that resigned thousand yard stare he sometimes does, shutting himself off completely. “I guess you’re not pathetic.”

All her anger deflates just like that — she doesn’t know why she’s trying to hurt him. Why she’s trying to make him ache the way she does, ache at how she doesn’t get him, not in the way she wants him to, not in a way that allows her to be a good person. Clarke opens and closes her mouth soundlessly before she casts her eyes down at her hands and settles on a quiet, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head lightly as he presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, rubbing slightly. “Okay.”

He slides off the chair, making his way around the island. She turns as he comes up beside her, hip leaning against the counter as she looks up at him. Bellamy swallows tightly, inhaling deeply as he rakes her eyes, before tentatively reaching up to palm her soft cheek, thumb moving over the tender skin underneath her eye. Her breath hitches quietly, pulse rattling at a breakneck speed, but she doesn’t say anything, too afraid to break whatever this is. Instinctively, she leans into his touch, searching his face trying to figure out what that whatever is. His other hand reaches for the edge of the counter, as if to steady himself, grip tight enough to pale his knuckles. 

Calloused fingers slip down her cheek towards her throat, along the nape of her neck and the junction of her shoulder before tracing back up to her ear, then down the edge of her jaw. Her eyes have fluttered shut at the gentle sensation of tingles he’s managed to draw to the surface of her skin and her mouth parts slightly, his name on the tip of her tongue but she can’t bring herself to say it in case it makes him stop. She should probably tell him to stop.

She finds his eyes again, seeing them darken and there’s the traitorous double, triple beat of her heart and she knows she can’t. Can’t ever ask him to stop. She’s weak when it comes to him, and he seems to know it. With their eyes locked like this, need reflected right back at her, it seems to be the most honest conversation they’ve had with each other all night. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then his fingers continue their ever so gentle path along the dip in her chin, tilting her head up slightly. 

A surge of want streaks through her as his head dips down to drop a small, featherlight kiss to her jaw. Close enough to make her head spin, but not exactly where she wants him. Her head tilts back to allow him more access, earning her another soft press of his lips to the hollow of her throat, her eyes sliding shut. 

All at once, he pulls back, and if it wasn’t for the way his chest was heaving from where he was standing at a now respectable distance, she would’ve doubted anything even happened at all. Clarke blinks at him, trying to clear her mind from _him_ ; his touch, his scent, his proximity. He’s overwhelming and confusing and she can’t keep doing this relentless push and pull if they can’t even be honest with each other. And then she straightens and fixates her gaze on a spot just below his chin, a brief clench of her jaw before she allows herself to linger in the weakness for once, or at least the acknowledgement it exits, “You can’t seriously expect me to tell you how I feel when there’s no way those feelings could be reciprocated. You and I both know they can’t.” 

Silence lingers in the air, heavy and tense and suffocating. She meets his eyes finally, just for a second, before she realizes she needs distance, physically, as much of it as she can get between them, and she picks up the carton of milk and makes a move to open the fridge. He pulls her back by her wrist before she can, and he’s closer than he has to be, should be. He’s searching her face, few curls falling in his eyes because of how he has to duck his head to look at her completely. It would be so easy, to lean up, to give in and just kiss him already. And she hates herself for wanting it, needing it, craving it, so she tries to start a fight, anything to distract from it, her tone harsh despite it’s hoarseness, “What are you doing?”

She doesn’t expect him to falter, to pull back from her again and look almost sad. If anything, they’re at their best when they’re fighting, and he’s always up for it. Instead now, his mouth twists and he tugs on the front of his hair in frustration, trying to find the right words. “It’s like—” He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve been fighting this for a while. When I left the bar with you tonight, it was over then. I already made the mistake.”

Clarke can’t lie. It stings, to be called a mistake. Another reminder she’s not who he really wants. She’s a distraction at best, maybe a fun challenge, a fucked up goodbye to his single life even, but she’s not the girl he’s going to marry. And god, does it fucking hurt. “What?”

“No, not—I don’t mean like _that,”_ he stammers, stupidly, and she feels sick with herself at the fondness she feels surge up in herself at the flustered look on his face as he pinches the of his nose, the other on his hip. “I mean, I—” He makes sure to look at her directly when he speaks next, “Nothing really changes if we kiss now but the principle of it.” His inhales sharply through his nose, as if it hurts him to admit it, and suddenly everything falls into place. “I’m already cheating. I feel like I am, anyway.”

He’s both making no sense and all the sense in the world, and Clarke can physically feel her walls come up, a strange mix of emotions flooding her system all at once. “Technically nothing has happened.”

His face hardens, but he doesn’t look angry with her, aggravated maybe, mostly at himself, gripping the counter with his hand again. His brown eyes are soft though, and the brokenness she feels inside is reflected right there. “I can’t really look her in the eye and make up some bullshit about technicalities when—” Another quick, sharp inhale through his nose like he’s gearing up for war, “When I’m in love with you, Clarke.”

By the time he finishes the sentence, most of the fight has left him and Clarke’s mouth feels dry, despite swallowing tightly trying to ease it. She just blinks at him, stupid and as hollow as she feels inside. “You are?”

“Yeah,” he snaps, without much heat, reaching up to rub his face with both hands and all Clarke can do is stare at him as he meets her eyes again, his eyes dark and resenting and and frustrated and none of it’s for her. “And I’m a horrible piece of shit for doing this to her, but you were right. She does deserve better than me.” He clenches his jaw, fingers curling into fists briefly as he shifts his head away from her. As an afterthought, he adds, quiet, “So do you.”

She grips his fingers with hers, demanding his attention. She’d rather he’d be mad at her than at himself, that he’d fight her, that he wouldn’t just give in like this, resign whatever he feels, whatever’s between them just like that. “We _haven’t_ kissed. And yes, it might be a technicality but that’s why I —” She breaks herself off, squeezing his hand as she swallows to buy herself some time. She’s almost desperate with it, with how she needs him to _hear_ her. “It’s why you’re _good_ , Bellamy.”

“Clarke, I’m supposed to get married this Friday and I’m here in your kitchen,” he says, bitterly, and it’s not a reproach, but she takes it personally anyway. His voice is rougher, the next time he talks, and there’s tension in his entire body, in every move he makes, from the way he rips his hand from her grip to the deliberately slow way he blinks as if having trouble processing his own thought process. “And I _would_ ’ve. I would’ve kissed you if I thought it’s what you wanted me to do.”

Her mind flashes back to two years ago. That night of the apartment building fire in his old childhood neighbourhood, the night they lost person after person and kept losing. A sweet old man, that single dad of two, that young pregnant girl whose name Clarke still remembers, has etched inside her brain. The way she begged her to save her baby instead, made her promise with her hand wrapped tight around hers, and no matter how hard Clarke tried she couldn’t save either. _Maya._ One of the firefighters, too, and she knows it’s the name that haunts him. _Monroe._ Small but quick and strong, a quiet steady presence with her ruddy hair always braided back. 

Some deaths are harder than others and there’s a strange, morbid kind of companionship in loss. He blamed himself for not getting them out sooner and she blamed herself for not being able to do more for them. It was useless blame that comes with the job, blame they managed to repress on most days but not that night. It was something they both understood. 

Not even an hour after his squad returned to the station for debriefing, he was back in her ER with torn stitches and they got into another useless argument just for the sake of having an argument, this time about him not following her medical advice. _Why do you even care?_ Him pressing her up against the door of the on-call room, fingers bruising her hips. Her nails digging into the base of his neck, not being able to get close enough. They both took what they needed, the physical reassurance that at least they hadn’t lost each other, found comfort in the hard press of their mouths together and the way their lungs burned enough for it to hurt. Then her pager went off, and they never spoke of it again, mostly because Bellamy kept looking at her too longingly for comfort whenever he thought she wouldn’t notice and Clarke didn’t know _how_. 

There’d always been a draw between them, even beyond him checking all the boxes of what she and everyone else thinks an attractive guy is and them both liking the antagonistic angle of their relationship a little too much for them to really know why. A quiet understanding that even if they couldn’t be more different on the surface, in a way their souls were the same and their shoulders carried the same weight. 

She always hoped that one day, she’d be ready to face her fears and take the leap. That she could be brave again after getting her heart broken so many times, find enough strength to stop calling it a weakness. She was saving him, but she waited too long. 

And now he’s here, in front of her, and she’s not sure she can let him walk away again. She’s not sure she isn’t just as bad as Finn, as Lexa, maybe even worse, and she doesn’t even care. She doesn’t care when he wants her, needs her, loves _her_. When she knows, trusts, that if she leaps, he’ll be there to catch her. 

“How about you and I, we make a deal—” She’s getting frantic now, because she _has_ to at least try for her own peace of mind, grasping at straws trying to keep him from giving in, from using this as an another excuse to hate himself. “How about, tomorrow, you talk to her and then you pick me up from work—“

“Life’s too short,” he breathes, and then he’s pulling her into his arms, pressing his mouth against hers. God, she can’t even pretend like she could try and hold herself back. She kisses him back fiercely, clashes of tongue and teeth as her hands grip his shoulders while he turns them and pushes her back up against the fridge. 

In their line of work, they both see how precious life can be, how fast it can be turned upside down, or over without you even getting a say. And maybe it’s a flimsy excuse she’ll use to convince herself she’s not a monster, and she’s clutching at straws trying to justify how easily she gives in — but _maybe_ , this things that are wrong can be right, too. It feels right, and she hasn’t felt this right in such a long time that she can’t let her head ruin it.

They move just a little to the side, enough for him to band an arm under her thighs and lift her up onto the counter. She leans back just a little, breathing heavily, and he follows, kissing down the side of her neck. Bellamy bites, lightly, and she groans, angling her head to give him even more access, fingers curling into his hair. 

His tongue teasingly runs over her pulse point before he presses a soft kiss to the strained tendon of her neck. A quiet hum of pleasure slips past her lips, thighs tightening around his hips, and before she knows it he’s moving away, kissing her on the forehead. 

A whine leaves her mouth in protest before she has anything to say about it, and he tucks her hair behind her ear. She can only blink at him as his fingers trail down towards her collarbone, over her ribs and down her waist. There, he grips her tightly, keeping her in place. 

“What do you want, Clarke?” He whispers, and before she can even try and stammer out an answer, he’s leaning in to kiss her again, like he can’t stop himself. He nips her bottom lip, just enough for it to sting a little and then he’s moving back too quickly, leaving her groaning in frustration. 

“Tell me what you want,” he repeats, firm, fingers digging into her sides impatiently enough for her to know he’s not _really_ trying to slow them down like she was afraid of. He’s holding back too, just wants to hear her say it. 

Yet, Clarke is far from able to form any proper words. She squirms on the counter, sliding her fingers back into his hair to tug lightly, trying to get his mouth back towards her neck. “Please.”

“Please, what?” His voice is rough, and he doesn’t budge, doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. There’s just the erratic rise and fall of his chest, the struggle in his dark eyes, pupils so blown they’re almost black. 

“Bellamy,” she whispers, too embarrassed to actually say it out loud, maybe even a little scared it’ll make it too real, and he must take it as a rejection because he’s moving away from her, backing up against the island, Clarke’s hands falling away limply. 

She gets off the counter as gracefully as she can, approaching him with her heart pounding loudly in her throat. She doesn’t stop until her bare feet are between his, toes curling on top of the cold tiles as she presses upwards, careful not to touch him, just to threaten him with it. “What I _want_ , is for you to fuck me.”

He moves first, fingers sliding underneath her shirt this time to catch her ribs. She sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, hands big and warm on her skin. The light catches in his eye for just the flash of a second, and the intensity of it overwhelms her all at once, the way she doesn’t feel worthy of whatever he sees in her, but is willing to try. 

She lifts her hand, fingertips brushing the light stubble on his jaw before she presses back up to seal her mouth over his intensely. The next thing, all she knows is Bellamy; his calloused hands, his firm chest, his mouth and his tongue — turning the back of her eyelids white, a high distant and heady buzz in her ears, _consuming_ her. 

Clarke pulls away with a frown and waits for the guilt to come. It never does. He brings out the worst in her, makes her selfish, and greedy, and reckless, and that should probably be enough of a reason to stop. But the weighty air between them sparks with a nervous eclectic energy, as if even the atmosphere knows everything is about to change, like the universe is resetting itself to the way it’s supposed to be, and she knows she’s far beyond worrying about morality. For once, she refuses to get all inside her own head and ruin it before it’s even happened. The world won’t end if she gives in, just this once.

Their breaths mingle together as he leans back in, waiting for her to close the distance. A surge of fondness swells in the middle of her chest, and then she’s licking back into his mouth, desperate and needy and perfect and like stepping off a cliff. His hands moving over her ribs towards her back, trailing down her spine. He lifts her back onto the counter easily, the kitchen island closest this time, bowl clattering to the floor loudly, and she can feel heat radiate off him as she stares up at him through half-lidded eyes, his mouth as red and swollen as she assumes hers is. 

She’s never felt small next to him, somehow he always made her feel big and important, like her opinions mattered enough for him to listen to and even fight her on them, but right now, in this moment she’s acutely aware of just how large he actually is. Instead of being scared, she feels secure. Safe. A trust she hasn’t had in so long, maybe ever, it takes her a second to recover from the realisation.

Clarke adjusts her position a little, spreading her knees to urge him closer, and as he brushes against her, her hips thrust forward against him involuntarily. He groans, hands sliding back towards her chest to cup her breasts over her bra, and she bites her lip, slowly raising her eyes to meet his. 

There’s no guilt there either, no lingering doubt, just _need_. It’s a bad idea. It’s irresponsible. Dangerous. And a poor, reckless decision that’ll end up hurting other people. Good people. Yet something undefinable erupts low in her belly, spreading through her veins like wildfire and throbbing in her throat, her chest, her cunt. Making her lightheaded. 

His thumbs flick over her nipples through the thin material of her bra, jaw tightening as he leans closer, breathing in deeply until the last of the distance between them is closed, his body crushing to hers and a strangled gasp from her muffled by his lips. His mouth feels like it’s everywhere at once; the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her neck, the shell of her ear, across her cheekbone. Making her breath catch, or her toes curl, or stars burst behind her eyelids. All Clarke can do is hold on, clutching his biceps tightly as he sucks right over her pulse point, pulling another moan from her. 

Every desperate breathy kiss, every little bite leaving a mark, every lingering touch, every tight grasp of his fingers on her breasts, or hers digging into his shoulders — laying claim. Branding, now that they were finally crossing the line they had tip-toed for too long. Feral, almost, both finally allowed to take and mark what was theirs. 

One of her hands is clumsily trying to unbutton his pants, and despite the heat of the moment she realizes that even if this isn’t the point of no return, she can’t ever go back. He has to know. 

“Promise me,” she breathes against his mouth before he’s kissing her again, too dazed to process it, and she feels like she should explain it to him, but all that comes out the next time she manages to pull away to take a breath is a desperate echo of what she just said, “Promise me.”

She _can’t_ go back. And she doesn’t want him to either. If he still ends up going back to her, she won’t survive it. He understands, finding her gaze, one hand smoothing her hair away from her face and his next kiss is softer, slower, thumb moving over her cheekbone. “I promise,” he murmurs into her mouth, and she believes him.

One of her arms bands back over the back of his shoulders, pulling him closer as the kiss turns more needy, dirtier and sloppier. The other hand resumes it’s earlier mission, finally flicking open the button of his jeans and dipping inside his boxers to wrap around his length. He growls into her mouth, and the vibration causes her to clench down onto nothing, desperate to be filled. 

Her head spins and her lungs ache from a lack of air and all she knows as he starts kissing down her neck is that she needs to feel him, as close as possible, as soon as possible. 

“You want my mouth first?” He rasps against her skin just as she tightens her grip around him, pecking a spot below her ear before nuzzling the hollow of her throat. 

She doesn’t even open her eyes, just shakes her head as she flicks her thumb over the head of his cocks, getting him to buck up into her hand and her cunt aches. “No. Just you.”

His hand moves in between them to push aside her sleeping shorts and panties enough to test her wetness with two fingers. His teeth scrape the side of her neck, a low growl rumbling in his chest at the feel of her as he spreads the slickness gathered at her entrance to her clit and back. Irrational with need, she slides her hips closer to the edge of the counter, and he takes the hint, the coolness of the air soon replaced by his heat as he slides home in one push. 

They moan into each other’s mouth, adjusting to the feel of him stretching her wide open. It burns just a little, his cock thick and curvy and bigger than she’s had in a while, but she likes it. She likes how he feels inside of her, how they fit perfectly together, like they were made for each other. She both wants to stay like this forever and make him move already, and the last of her rationality makes her go with the latter. 

One of her hands reaches back to lean against the counter to support her weight, the other grasping one of his forearms, all solid, strained muscle. She lifts her knees to give him the best angle to work with as he starts pumping in and out of her slowly. 

Her neck cranes back to expose her throat and he leans down to kiss his way down it again, nipping and sucking and driving her absolutely crazy. She needs more, faster, harder and she finds her heel digging into his ass, urging him on as his hand dips under her shirt and cups her breast again, kneading almost painfully. 

Bellamy starts pounding into her faster, punishing, his rhythm sloppier, thumb tugging and flicking at her nipple and they can barely call it kissing when they’re just breathing and moaning into each other’s mouth by now but, fuck, it’s good. So good, every time he slams back in, head of his cock brushing her cervix and adding extra pressure that’s both painful and delicious, stomach flipping every time. He accidentally slides out once or twice in their excitement, and every time his hand leaves her breast to hold aside her shorts and panties enough so he can push back inside, reminding her through the relentless swirl of desire flowing straight to her centre that she never wants him anywhere else.

The next time he straightens and his big hand leaves her breast, a protest leaves her lips but it’s soon forgotten when his hand trails down her stomach to find her clit. He presses down hard before starting to circle it roughly and all she can do is throw her head back in both pleasure and agony, breath hitching in the back of her throat as her skin starts to feel tight, on fire. 

The pressure that’s been building inside of her explodes all at once, bursting as she falls apart and sending little jolts of pleasure up her spine. His next few strokes are slower, almost reverent, like he’s trying to cherish it, but even he can’t hold off much longer with the way her cunt’s fluttering around him, and soon enough he’s spilling inside of her with a quiet grunt. He ducks his head to press his forehead against her collarbone as they both try to regain their breath.

After a while, she starts to become aware of the fact there’s a corner of a kitchen scale uncomfortable digging in her back and figures they should probably move. Bellamy makes sure her shorts and panties are back in place and tucks himself back into his boxers before helping off the counter, her legs a little shaky. He steadies her with his hands on her hips while she looks up at him and they both just let out this stupid breathy laugh. 

He wraps an arm around her and Clarke leans her forehead against his shoulder, shaking from his quiet chuckles. They both just laugh some more as the absurdity of the entire night, the lack of sleep, the emotional exhaustion and the physical exertion finally catch up with them. Her head lolls to the side enough to look up at him with a dumb goofy grin, matching his. “This is weird.”

Bellamy leans down to press a kiss against the crown of her head and her heart flutters in her chest. “Good weird or bad weird?”

“Good,” she decides quietly, cheek pressed against his chest, which earns her another soft grin. “Wanna take a nap?”

He hums in agreement, letting her pull him along to her bedroom. She goes to the bathroom to pee and freshen up a little, finding him in her bed in just his boxers and shirt. Clarke starts to move onto the mattress with a soft, tired sigh, crawling underneath the covers. She feels like she could sleep for days. 

As soon as she’s lying beside him, hand propped underneath her pillow and he’s rolling onto his side so he can look at her, she feels wide awake though. The reality of what they did is starting to sink in, and she just hopes she’s not the only one who doesn’t regret it. 

The pull between them is something she can’t put in words. It’s all-consuming, smothering even, dangerous. Sex is a natural expression of the feelings between them, and they way they did it probably should have felt off, or wrong, but it didn’t. She wanted him. She still wants him. 

And she hopes that he knows he deserves to have whatever he wants, too, even if that’s not her. That he doesn’t owe her, or Gina, or his sister, or anyone else a single thing. 

Clarke hesitates, opening her mouth before closing it again. She licks her lips, then tries again, “When I asked you to make me a promise, did you know what I meant?”

A crease appears between his brows, voice impossibly soft, laced with frustration. “I can’t — I’m not going to marry her, Clarke.”

Her mouth feels like cotton, and a dull ache settles in the middle of her chest. “But?”

“No ‘buts’,” Bellamy urges, and then his mouth twitches, and his frown deepens. “Do you—”

_“No,”_ she cuts him off, firmly. “I was just making sure.” A moment of silence passes and then she reaches out, wishing this didn’t have to be so difficult. That she could’ve just been brave sooner, that they didn’t have to hurt someone else, hurt each other. Absentmindedly she runs her finger over the slope of his nose and she notes, “It’s not really fair, you know? That she got to you first.”

Bellamy catches her hand with his, pressing her finger tips to his mouth. “She didn’t.”

Her heart swells, and swells. _Tell me I’m not making up_. 

This time, when they kiss, they’re far beyond desperation and frenzy, this is something more. This time it’s a decision. One time could be a mistake, could probably be buried and forgotten and just be another awkward thing that happened between them that they’ll never acknowledge in public again, but twice — that was purposeful. He’s choosing her. And she’s choosing him right back.

The last time they didn’t even bother trying to undress in all the heat of the moment, but now his hands slowly tug at the hem of her shirt until she sits up enough for him to pull it off. He laves her neck, hot breath in her ear, and it’s distracting her from trying to get his jersey off. After he’s done sucking another mark over her pulsepoint, he finally leans back to help her haul it over his head. 

She lets out a soft sigh when her palms finally touch his bare chest, but she doesn’t get to enjoy exploring the hard ridges and soft skin for long when his teeth sink into her collarbone and cause another surge of want to throb between her legs, tongue soothing the sting. He leans back with one knee in between her thighs, his hand moving behind her to unclasp her bra, dragging the straps down her arms.

He presses kisses all over her chest, small nips and gentle sucks with his teeth and lips before taking them in his hands and pressing her breasts together, squeezing. She lets out a breathy noise and he swallows it with his mouth. Her thighs have grown damp all over again, cunt clenching around nothing as his rough thumbs flick over her nipples. 

He starts kissing down her chest and soft stomach, and she lifts her hips automatically when he starts dragging her shorts and underwear down. His hands fold around the back of her knees, spreading her open as he licks into her without warning. Her pulse speeds up desperately as her fingers curl into the blanket, begging for any sort of purchase. He wraps his lips around her clit, swirling his tongue around it before sucking, hard, so sudden, it makes her gasp out, electricity burning a reckless path up her spine. 

“Bellamy,” she breathes, and her head spins as he hums against her clit in response. She doesn’t think she can take coming again without _feeling_ him. She trashes her head on the pillow as she reaches for him, trying to get him to come back up as she struggles to keep her eyes open. It’s not even been an hour since the last time, and she already misses it. “Please. Just—I want you inside of me, okay?”

He moves off her with a small grunt to push off his boxers, and then they’re both naked as he presses his weight into the cradle of her hips. Bellamy takes her in, reverent. She can’t imagine she looks very sexy like this, her skin hot and sweaty, hair a matted mess and on the brink of a break down, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His smile falters slowly, a sad look in his eyes. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“And now you do,” she promises, pushing his hair back from his face as she pulls him down for another kiss and they stay like that for a while. Mouths moving together slowly, clinging to each other, craving the closeness, skin on skin. 

Once the needy ache inside of her is starting to grow overwhelmingly impatient she widens her knees a little and he takes the hint, lining himself up perfectly. He slides through her wet heat in one easy stroke and fills her in up in a way that leaves her throwing her head back and choking on a gasp. Clarke’s eyes squeeze shut, bottom lip sliding in between her teeth as pleasure flows through her. His hard, panting breath against the side of her neck pulls her back down to earth, realizing he’s still paused fully seated inside of her, waiting for her.

She kisses his jaw, letting him know it’s okay and then he starts moving, slow, sinful pumps — pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in every time. Her fingers wind into his hair tightly, moaning into his mouth as he thrusts into her with a small lift at the end, hitting a spot that makes tiny galaxies burst behind her eyelids.

One of his hands palms her breast, tugging on her nipple in tandem with how the other hand sneaks down in between them, thumbing at her clit. Light tremors build into violent rumbles of pleasure, and just like that, she tips over the edge, quick and sharp. 

When she finally blinks open her eyes, breath no longer stolen, he still hasn’t moved — leaning down on his fists as he looks down at her, soft and affectionate in a way that makes her already overheated skin feel even warmer. She leans up on her elbows to meet him for a kiss, and when he obliges she makes use of the distraction by flipping them over. 

Her small hands splay over his chest for support as she sits back onto his thighs, watching an almost primal flare rise up in his brown eyes. Her hair falls down her shoulders as she smiles down at him, wicked, a quirk in her eyebrow. “Not a pillow princess, remember?”

With his hands on her ass and a low growl he shifts her higher, closer to latch his hot mouth to her breast and brushing her centre over his still hard cock, nearly making her black out at the sensation. 

Clarke only fumbles between them for a second, folding her hand around his cock as she guides him down to her centre. She strokes him, slow and deliberate, enjoying the vibrations of his dark hums against her skin. The hum turns into a groan matching hers as soon as she slides him between her slick lips, his cock brushing against her clit with each pass. His teeth dig into her breast almost painfully as she finally sinks down on him with a hiss, the new angle making her eyes roll into the back of her head.

Her fingers run down his firm arms until she finds his wrist, holding them up beside his head and intertwining their fingers so she can use him for leverage. He rocks against her, breathing growing shallow and fingers twitching in between hers, causing her to whimper at the pressure right against her cervix.

Another second, and then she’s lifting her hips and moving them back down in small figure eights, meeting his dark eyes. He draws something from her she’s never experienced before, that has her revel in seeing his mouth red and swollen, hair wild and the dark bruises and marks down his neck and chest. 

His eyes hold hers, never looking away, not even when she lets go off one of his hands to change the angle at the last second, causing him to slide in even deeper than before. Her breath sizes in her chest, the warm smoldering feeling low in her belly searing her with a building sensation, and she blinks, trying to regain her earlier rhythm. This time, he helps her, free hand coming up to grasp her hip tightly, guide her movements as he meets her, thrusts up in her, their skin slick with sweat. 

It’s perfect — the angle, the depth, the way her clit rubs over his pelvic bone and the fire inside sparks and sparks, pressure building intensely. Her toes start to grow numb from the way they’re pressed into the mattress, and her fingers are starting to lose feeling with how tightly they’re pressed in between the spaces of his, all the blood in her body flooding to one place, throbbing deliciously. 

Finally, the heated pressure snaps and explodes like a volcano erupting, drawing a high, breathy sound from her. Sparks flash behind her eyes, the warm feeling low in her belly starting to spread, clenching around him as time seems to stop, suspending her. 

His hips jerk erratically just once or twice before she feels him swell inside of her, and then she’s collapsing forward on top of him, face mushed against his chest as they try to get control of their breathing. The steady thump of his heart under her ear helps calm the jittery feeling under her skin as the emotional rollercoaster she’s been on for the past few hours catches up with her. 

Regretfully, with another peck to his chest, she rolls off him. He catches her hand before she can get up completely. “Stay,” Bellamy says, quiet voice rough before he scrapes his throat. 

“I’ll be right back,” she half-chuckles at his clinginess, but her eyes soften at the look on his face. “Have to clean up the mess you made.”

He frowns, but lets go off her fingers and she hurries over to the bathroom to use the toilet and clean herself up a little. She washes her hands, absentmindedly brushes her cool fingers over the marks down her neck and chest. It makes a heady desire flare up inside her again, but she’s too tired and sore to even consider acting on it right now.

Clarke finds him in the bed, back turned toward the bathroom door. She crawls back into the bed, this time under the covers. He’s quiet, but his breaths are too uneven for him to be asleep already.

“I didn’t mean it like that, you know,” she says, pressing a kiss in between his shoulder blades before wrapping herself around him, cheek pressed against the side of his neck. It’s sticky and warm, but she can feel he needs the physical reassurance. Her heartbeat speeding up as if it’s trying to break free, leap inside of him. “About making a mess.”

“I know.” he mumbles, turning in her hold, until he’s half on his back and can look at her. He offers her half a smile. “It’s just — it’s going to suck having to call off the wedding.” His gaze drops to her hand over his pec. “She might never forgive me.”

“Then I will,” she promises, not even thinking about it. She’ll absolve him of all fault if that helps him forgive himself, too. This, what they did, it meant something to her, something she hasn’t allowed herself to want for a long time, and it couldn’t have happened under less shittier circumstances but it’s still something _good_. And she can’t let him deny himself anymore good things. Can’t let herself do it anymore either. 

His smile grows, and she can tells it means something to him too. There’s a spark in his eye that’s no longer dimmed, and she takes pride in it. “Permission to say something cheesy?”

Clarke adjusts her position so he can roll over onto his back completely, settling into his side. She returns his smile, coy. “I’ll allow it this once.”

“I’m really glad I was selfish with you tonight,” he admits, and it seems to cost him something from the way his eyes glaze over slightly. Then the corner of his mouth turns up slightly, in that half-smirk that used to never fail to rub her the wrong way and somehow over time grew into a gesture that made her stomach flip. “Want to hear something fucked up, too?”

“Sure,” she encourages him half-heartedly, skimming her fingers over his brows and down his cheek, mapping all his freckles. She’s pretty sure she could listen to him name his grocery lists for hours, if that’s what he wanted to do. 

Bellamy shifts his head to press his mouth to her palm before exhaling loudly, chest rising heavily. “I don’t really care if she never forgives me as long as you look at me the way you do.”

Her heart swells, and she feels almost stupid at how easy she is when it comes to him. She stifles a smile. “I thought we agreed on one cheesy line?”

“What can I say? You bring it out of me,” he jokes, craning his neck at an awkward angle to meet her lips and she laughs against his mouth, fingers sliding into his hair at the back of his head, scratching her nails against him softly. 

Her eyes soften as he pulls back, acknowledging he was trying to be serious for a second. “I _am_ sorry, you know. About Gina.” From what she’s heard, she seems nice.

Bellamy turns his head to look at her with raised eyebrows, skeptical, and he really _does_ know her. “You’re not really though.”

“When you look at me like that? Not really no,” she teases, and really, she’s not going to lie. She doesn’t really know Gina, but she knows Bellamy. And she wants him, needs him, craves him. She feels bad, but she’s not sorry Bellamy wants her back. Not when a part of her has always thought of him as hers. 

His half-laugh turns into a groan, dragging a forearm over his eyes. “We’re seriously fucked up.”

“We just have to make it worthwhile,” Clarke muses, obviously teasing, slotting a leg between his as she shifts enough so she can prop her chin up on his chest. “I mean, I’d rather my fiancé breaks off our wedding last minute to be with a concept as ridiculous as a soulmate than for a random one-night stand.”

Surprise covers his face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “Right,” he agrees with a dry snort. “I guess we’re going to have be together forever to make the humiliation for Gina bearable.”

She rolls her eyes, as if it’s stupid, as if her chest doesn’t feel impossibly warm at the implications. “I guess I’m going to have to marry you and have several of your babies for Gina then.”

“Don’t forget the house and the dog.”

“The house, the dog, the shared grave deeds,” she lists, easily.

“I guess it’s settled then,” he concludes, humorous lilt to his voice although his face is the epitome of seriousness. 

Clarke hums affirmatively, holding his gaze, and then his face falls and it frustrates her, how he won’t even let himself be happy for one moment, already thinking about the next. “We should probably lay low for a while. She’s going to be upset and all my friends love her, I don’t want to put you through—”

“I understand,” she cuts him off, firmly, raising her eyebrows. “Despite popular belief, I don’t look forward to being labeled a homewrecker.”

“Clarke—” He starts, guilty. And she can’t let him do this, take the blame or turn it into something that’s wrong.

“It’s fine,” she insists, and it really is fine. She’s not someone who gives other people’s opinions much weight anyway, and she thinks in the end it will be more than worth it. She leans up on one elbow, dragging up the sheet as she cups his jaw in her much smaller hand, sucking in a nervous breath. “We did something bad, but it doesn’t make us bad people, okay?”

“You don’t have to talk me into this, you know?” He moves onto his side, too, covering her hand with his palm, thumb moving over knuckles. “I’m already more than in this. The next few weeks might suck, but if I know I have you—”

Clarke kisses him, hard, not ready to have him be so vocally vulnerable with her again when she already knows. He’s good at that, somehow always easy for him to open to her, and she’ll have to work at it to become better at it too. “You do,” she breathes, touching her forehead to his, noses squeezed together. “You have me.”


End file.
